


When in Naboo

by Darth_Videtur



Series: Completely Unrelated Alternate Universes - A Compilation [3]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Ages changed slightly, Ancient Rome, Gladiators, Majorly AU setting, Other, pairings will form eventually, politics and intrigue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2018-05-13 03:28:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5692837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darth_Videtur/pseuds/Darth_Videtur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life as a gladiator is never boring, but Anakin Skywalker, known as the "Chosen One" to his millions of fans, is about to discover a whole new world of intrigue and danger in the heart of the Republic. AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Prologue: Call to Worship 

The guttering flames scattered shadows across the small chamber, shadows that danced along the faces of over two dozen Naboo standing shoulder to shoulder. Their faces reflected the light in thick layers of white paint, the symbolic coverings of the Moon Goddess. And then the faces began to move, swaying forward as one and falling away, soft words dripping from the painted lips. One figure stood out from the rest, her lithe body wreathed in the purest of white garments, her eyes fixed on the image above the altar. The others in the room followed her movements as if entranced. 

In the far back of the chamber, three figures stood shrouded in black and dark purple robes, their hoods pulled far up over their heads. The central figure turned to the one on his right and whispered, “She is far more passionate about the rituals than the last one, Consul. Are you certain she can be swayed?” 

The shorter man lifted his chin and sighed. “Not certain, no. Nothing is certain in the face of religious fanaticism.” 

“Be careful!” the third man hissed. “If they heard you say that…” 

His warning trailed off as the worshippers raised their voices in a new chant, and the three men watched in silence. The chant begged the Moon Goddess for her favor in the coming tensions with Skor II, the military campaign that would determine if Naboo’s southern borders could be easily expanded. The supplicants offered a multitude of gifts, everything from their possessions to their prized slaves, if only victory would be granted. 

The first man, narrow of face and flinty-eyed, leaned close to the second’s ear. “It’s barbaric and outdated.” 

“It’s our culture, Wilhuff,” the Consul said, eyes never leaving the woman at the front of the chambers. “You’d best get used to it. Anything can be useful in some way. This too, has its place.” 

“You don’t believe - ”

He interrupted him sharply. “I believe we will have victory if the gods will it, Wilhuff. There is no other consideration.” 

The taller man looked askance at him but closed his mouth when he sensed the presence of another at his back. He turned, fully revealing the woman in white, who had glided silently to their sides in the middle of the chanting. She was young, breathtakingly beautiful, and fever-bright around the eyes. Her semi-transparent robes partially concealed a perfectly youthful, nubile body, which all three men took great care not to notice. 

When she spoke, her voice ensnared them with its breathy quality. “It is my pleasure to welcome you to the War Rites, Consul. You’ve not attended our gatherings before, I think.” 

The second man bowed his head and shoulders deferentially. “A mistake I came to rectify tonight, Your Majesty. I understand you are seeking Her favor in the coming battle.” 

Her eyes glazed over as she pondered him and his quiet companions. “Our forces are strong, Consul, in no small part thanks to your military brilliance, and that of your fellow Consuls. But Her might is greater still, and Her wisdom beyond our fathoming. It would be folly to begin war without Her blessing.”

“I do not doubt your words,” he said. 

“And yet…” she stepped closer and reached out her ethereal hands to his face, curving her fingers down over his jawline. “Yet you do not join in with the supplications yourself.” 

“I have made my own private entreaties,” he ignored the irritating ticking of her nails. “Your Majesty, you know I depart soon to oversee the central front.”

“There is little time,” the first man said, staring over her head as if determined not to look any lower. She noticed his hesitance and laughed, sultry and low. 

“There is always time to bask in the light of the Moon, barbarian,” she smiled and transferred her hands to his high cheekbones. He flinched, and she looked from the corner of her eyes at the shorter man. “When the chants are done, we shall join in the Ancient Rites and seal our combined strength for the victory. Won’t you join us, Consul?” 

The seductive invitation hung in the smoky air for a long moment, and then the Consul shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Your Majesty. The spiritual realm is yours to enjoy and command. My place lies elsewhere.”

“The Senate? The battlefield?” she smirked. Below them, the worshippers began to draw close to each other, pulling at the milky white robes and mingling limbs. Low moans drifted up from the chamber as they abandoned themselves to the wild passions of the Ancient Rites. The Queen fixed her gaze on the Consul. “You fear the physical, my lord. You fear the manifold pleasures that could be yours. They say you always have, and I wonder why.”

He said nothing. 

Her eyes flashed with a faint fire. “Keep your peace, then, and bring victory to Naboo once more.” 

“I go with your blessing?” he asked, daring a thin-lipped smile. 

She returned it and lifted her chin, exposing the white of her jewel-adorned throat to him. “You do. You always do, Consul.”


	2. Anakin Skywalker I: Dreams on a Distant Shore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anakin cuts a deal.

The guttural scream that he ripped from his opponent’s throat satisfied the crowds, whose roaring filled the arena and drowned out the commentary of the announcer. Anakin Skywalker jerked the vibro-ax out of the Rodian’s central nervous system and watched the green body slide jerking and twitching to the sandy dirt. The young human stood from his crouch and waved to his audience, a jaunty motion that sent over a dozen Naboo women swooning in the arms of their companions. He smirked at the sight. 

Putty in my hands. 

Half a dozen droid cams circled around his head like gigantic pollinators. Being a gladiator wasn’t so bad, when one got past the whole killing and dying thing. A lot like racing, actually. He tossed the vibro-ax into the waiting hands of his keeper and stepped into the shadows of the arena chute. Outside, the indistinct roar fragmented into a distinct cheer. “Skywalker! Skywalker! Skywalker!”

“Someday they’ll get tired of loving you, squirt, and then you’ll be sorry,” his keeper grinned, a massive Yinchorri with more nose than brains. 

“Tired of loving me? Loving the Chosen One?” Anakin laughed. He reached for a particle-disruptor towel on the low shelf and began scrubbing away the layers of grime and blood on his forearms. He would need a bath after this round. “Nah, I keep them too entertained.” 

“You’re getting high and mighty now,” Nuvok warned cheerfully. “Twenty-three last month. Getting’ old for a gladiator, you know. You start forgetting you’re just a slave, just like the rest of - ”

He didn’t finish his sentence, because his throat constricted to a painful degree under Anakin’s metallic fist, the durasteel fingers flexing when he squeaked in pain. 

“You know I don’t like you saying that, Nu.”

The Yinchorri gasped and whined until the powerful young gladiator released his throat and stalked down the chute. “You should really be nicer to me!” he called after his retreating form. “I do a lot of things for you.”

Anakin snorted and muttered under his breath, “Because I keep you in a job. Without me, you’d be on the auction block in seconds.” He and Nuvok had a long history together, from nearly the beginning of Anakin’s forced induction into Watto’s gladiatorial troop. Nuvok, a rare retired gladiator, had been his guide for lack of anything better. True, the old Yinchorri had been a crowd-pleaser in his days, but he had let the muscle go to fat in his belly. Over time, the open hostility between the two morphed into a friendly banter, albeit a cautious one. Very few beings led long lives in the bloodsport business, and Nuvok as a trainer was under no illusions about Anakin’s chances. 

Of course, he didn’t know about Anakin’s true ally, about the fiery strength that poured into his limbs in the heat of battle, about the whispers that caressed his mind before danger struck, about the gift he had for muddling the minds of his enemies. No one knew but Anakin. Anakin did not know what to call it either, but it was enough that he knew. He also knew that abilities like his were loathed and mistrusted in the Naboo culture.

Once, he had seen a fellow gladiator use his powers to get himself out of a deadly situation, only to be sacrificed to the Naboo gods to the thrilled screams of his former admirers. Anakin shivered as he stepped into the containment field at the end of the chute and began removing the layers of Mandalorian-forged armor. No, he would not end up that way. He was too careful, too jaded. 

Dumping the armor into the self-cleaning storage bins, he paced into the small, gleaming white room that had been his home for the last three years. On the far side of the chamber, a slot machine set into the wall emitted a series of beeps, and a small credit chip slid out into the waiting tray. His meager percentage of the earnings from the fight… Anakin scooped up the small chip and pocketed it. Some gladiators preferred to keep their funds in a bank account. Anakin didn’t trust Watto enough to keep his filthy hands out, so he asked for physical chips. They were a pain, but at least he could rustle them in his pockets and imagine that he might someday have enough. 

Enough to be free…

Always, the thought took him back to a kind face, a calloused face, and his empty promise – I’ll free us, Mom, someday, somehow, wait for me – He shoved the thought away along with the anger that instantly followed. This lousy planet, these lousy animals that called themselves people, that ripped apart other worlds for sport and laughed about it… Someday they would learn just how horrible it felt to have everything torn away in a heartbeat of time. 

Just not soon enough. The distant and self-important Galactic Alliance was too cowardly and fractured to ever challenge the might of the Naboo Republic, if one listened to the hushed whispers of the space pilots. Anakin compressed a panel on the right wall, and his cot dropped out of the ceiling to hover on anti-grav thrusters. He sank onto the bed with a soft sigh, unheeding of the caked filth still clinging to his arms and legs. At least as a gladiator, he received many of the comforts of life. An aurodium slave in a golden cage, worth so much more than the ones who physically toiled in the plasma mines or looked after the Shaak herds. 

His communicator suddenly jangled in his chest pocket, and he pulled it out. “What’s up, Watto?” he grunted in Huttese. “I just finished a match. I’m tired.”

Like always, his master ignored his flippant response. “Ani, my boy, it was well done, I think, too, hm? Yah, you keepa pleasing me like that and we’ll go far together.” 

“Yeah, okay.”

Watto was silent for a brief moment on the other end. “You know the Annual Games are coming up soon in Theed.”

“Sure I do,” Anakin sat up on the cot and rubbed at the back of his neck. In truth, he already felt the excitement traveling up his spine. The Games, when even a slave could pretend to be free for a little while, when the wind moved the hair and stirred the dead soul. He swallowed, trying to hold back his enthusiasm. 

“Well, I’ma thinking of putting you in the races, boy.” 

“But I crashed last time.”

Watto cleared his throat. “That you did, but you paid off the speeder in docked pay, and I’ve come into another one. You’re good, boy. You do me another four matches, you bring in the money like you brought it in today, and I’ll put you in.” Watto was a unique master. He knew how to dangle both the stick and the Shurra fruit. It was all an illusion of choice anyway. He could just make Anakin fight and race, but his methods routinely got better results than other masters who simply bludgeoned their way through their raw talent. Other masters spent slaves; Watto kept slaves. 

Anakin realized that the line had gone dead. “Master?”

“What do you say, Ani?”

He grinned. “I say four more heads will be rolling in the dust before long.” 

Watto chuckled and cut the connection. Anakin reclined back on the bed, his eyes gleaming with undisguised delight. His heart pounded. I’m going to race again.


	3. Alone on a Sea of Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We meet the young and idealistic Senator Amidala and discover that she has a lot on her mind. The Roman idea of cognomens and agnomens is fascinating and very confusing, with a variety of reasons for how they got them. Roman nobility often called each other by their cognomens. I thought the concept fit well with the complexity of the Naboo culture.

Padme Naberrie Amidala wanted to scream into her Jawa juice, but that was not a dignified way for a Senator and former Queen to act in public. So instead, she settled for the harshest glare in her repertoire and leveled it on her victim, fellow Senator Sola Jeska Tenacia. “You think he’ll come down from his patrician soapbox to treat with us?” 

Like most Naboo nobility, Tenacia was dressed in the finest shimmersilk the galaxy could offer, trimmed in a deep maroon, and her skin almost dripped with costly, imported perfume. Her vain cover hid a surprisingly astute mind, which confused Padme at the moment. Her colleague was not making sense. 

“Bibble yet lacks a reputable cognomen, my dear,” Tenacia purred. “He’s desperate to earn the approval of someone. If we listen to him, he may indeed give us what we want.” 

“And you think if Sio Bibble joins us, then we’ll have enough influence to shrink the property requirements for voting?” 

The much older woman leaned back in her chair and waved a servo-droid closer. “I’ll have another blossom wine,” she told it, and then turned back to Padme. “You’re simply driving me to drink, my dear. But yes, I think you underestimate Bibble’s family influence. His father was once a Consul. Besides, won’t you have Sidious on your side?”

She thought of her friend and mentor, Sheev Palpatine Sidious, and smiled wryly. “Sometimes I don’t think he believes in sides, Tenacia. The Consul seems determined to hide away in the outer reaches of our wars.”

Tenacia laughed. “And he’s well off for it too, hasn’t been seen in the Senate Chambers in weeks. Ambitio is green with envy. Everyone is saying he’s above it all, better than us scrapping, squabbling Senators. His military reputation is growing too. Your friend is quite a schemer, Amidala.”

Padme laughed with her, but she wondered much the same. Sidious, so named for his crafty exploits in the First Eriadu War, showed a startlingly adept sixth sense for politics. Among the three Consuls, his reach extended the furthest through friendships and alliances and loyalty. Her mentor was not physically imposing in the slightest, but his mental powers were well respected by most of his peers. “Well,” she finally said. “Without a guarantee of his support, I suppose we’ll have to rely on Bibble.” 

“Remember, my dear, small steps.” 

Padme raised her own wine in silent salute and studied her small reflection in the curve of the cup. Small steps, indeed. When one stood in the minority, there was little else to hope for. Twenty-six years old, and sometimes she felt entirely alone on her homeworld, fighting against centuries of tradition and complacency. Naboo had adhered to the old ways of slavery and conquest since the Time of Suffering almost eight hundred years ago, and she… Well, if anyone ever found out just how deep her pacifist thoughts went, she would be an outcast within the hour, or worse.

This was why she kept Tenecia close, because the older woman understood the value of subtlety, as she often reminded Padme when the Senators began to grate against her nerves with their self-important agendas. When she wanted to scream her throat bloody at their willful ignorance. 

“Have you spoken with him recently?”

Padme glanced up at the question. “Who? What?” 

Tenecia rolled her beautiful blue eyes. “Sidious, silly, about Skor II. The Holonet reports that his army group made surface-fall only four hours ago. So far, no additional reports.” 

Padme nodded. “He doesn’t like the media following his campaigns, says something about his troops getting overconfident.”

“It sure makes the rest of us curious. I still remember his offensive in the Third Eriadu War,” Tenecia sighed, eyes squinting with past excitement. “One minute his army was all but lost, and the next he sends a communique from the enemy headquarters, saying the Tarkin warlord is dead and his son is captured. So thrilling! He wasn’t handsome per se when he was younger, but there was something about him… something magnetic.” 

“He moves quickly, when he wants to,” Padme admitted. She finished the last of her blossom wine and stood from the low counter. “But he always drags his feet when I approach him about the plebs or the slaves.”

“He’s got to be careful around the patricians,” Tenecia said. “You know his family are equites, and only because King Tapalo raised his great-grandfather to that class due to their plebian wealth. The Palpatines were filthy with it once.” She reflected, and chuckled. “Probably still are, though he hides it well behind those walls of his estate.” 

He hides everything well, Padme thought. No senator, not even the other Consuls, could claim to know the mind of their mysterious peer. He was quiet by nature, with watery blue eyes that misted with his thoughts and a thin mouth that curved up at the edges. Unassuming, most thought, but Padme knew better. Under that calm veneer, a true politician waited. He was born to it, her father had bitterly said once after losing a critical debate to his friend. The rift took several years to mend. 

“Well, I just hope I can change his mind before long. Come on, Tenecia.” 

“Where are we going? The Senate isn’t convening again today.” Tenecia drained her second glass of wine and tossed a small credit chip on the counter. “Keep the change,” she told the bug-eyed Rodian slave behind the counter. At Padme’s obvious eyeroll, Tenecia shrugged. “What? I’m doing my part to free the slaves, all right?” 

The young Senator sighed and took her friend by the upper arm, steering her out into the busy foot traffic of Theed’s commercial district. “Sometimes I think you don’t take this that seriously.” 

“Ha! And you take it too seriously. Slaves won’t be freed in a day, you know. We’re fighting an uphill battle, and unless you plan to be a stoic for the rest of your life, you need to relax.” Tenecia turned to eye a rack of breathtaking aquastone charms. “Look, here’s one blessed for cunning from Shiraya. You’ll need that one for the Senate debates tomorrow.” 

Padme peered closely at the necklace, studying the way the circles looped endlessly within each other. A beautiful optical illusion, and one she was very familiar with, having performed many of the Moon Rites during her time as Queen. “I’ve got one of those,” she grunted. “A lot of good it’s done me.” 

“You’re such a doubter,” Tenecia shook her head and pulled Padme further down the walk. They walked in companionable silence for a while, Padme mulling her friend’s words over and over in her mind. Was she really a doubter? When her political career first began at the tender age of twelve, she’d been as enthusiastic of the gods and goddesses as anyone was. As Queen, her piety to her chosen patron goddess Shiraya was known across the Republic. And yet somehow, when she turned to the Senate, her faith had faltered in the face of greed and corruption, in the light of slavery and back-stabbing conquest. Instead of gods, she looked to people like her father and Sidious for guidance, men who understood the intricate ins and outs of Naboo’s government. 

They were willing enough to teach her, especially Sidious, who seemed strangely pleased that she had abandoned her slavish devotion to the deities. In the darkest parts of her heart, Padme worried that her mentor did not truly believe in the gods and goddesses. When religion came up in conversation, he always grew quiet, even withdrawn, as though he did not trust himself to speak. She never pushed him for the truth, because it could be dangerous. Even freebeings of Naboo had been severely punished in the past for treason against the pantheon. Even nobles. 

“Hey!” Tenecia’s voice broke her concentration, and she barely managed to side-step a small boy darting under her feet. Her friend steadied her with one hand and pointed up. “I know exactly what you could use.”

She looked up. Stretched tightly under one of Theed’s looming arched stone bridges was a sign proclaiming the next round of gladiatorial matches and athletic competitions in bright red lettering. Moving images of the most famous gladiators played on both sides of the title, their actions carefully edited to clip out the most gruesome aspects of the display. For a moment, her gaze lingered on a brown-haired youth, an easy smile on his face as he swung at his opponent. 

“You think I need that?” Padme shook her head. “You know I don’t approve.”

Tenecia laughed. “And you know I love them. There’s only going to be one match tomorrow. The rest will be heats and matches for the athletes. You like those.” 

Padme hesitated. She did very much like to watch the athletes compete, the freebeings striving alongside slaves to win the matches for a chance at the Annual Games. Most of the athletes were quite attractive, and being as lonely as she was these days, a little harmless fun might be what she needed. Might even take her mind off the complete idiocy in the Senate until Sidious returned and she could get a straight answer from him. She caught Tenecia staring at her with pleading, huge eyes. “Oh all right,” she said. “I’ll come with you tomorrow, but I’m not going to watch the gladiator match.” 

“Just close your eyes, you little bleeding heart,” her friend teased. “They’re usually very fast anyway.”


	4. To Be Honest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Palpatine solves some problems.

Sheev Palpatine Sidious barely noticed the scream of the speeder’s thrusters as it jerked to a stop at his side and the three dusty riders jumped down from their seats. Instead, he remained fixated on the unfolding battle in the viewscreen of his macrobinoculars. The small scopes whirred as they compensated for the thick fog that had developed in the valley between his headquarters and the capital city of Skor II. 

The tallest of the men strode immediately to his side and pointed west. “The left cohorts report only minimal resistance, Consul, but our mine-droids indicate unstable ground directly in their front. The General states that his units detect no mines.” 

He lowered the glasses from his eyes and turned slightly. “The ground is recently disturbed?”

“Very. Panaka’s intelligence reports that indigenous herds of Pack-grattas have been disturbed by the vibrations of the tanks and created the furrows. He intends to move forward.” 

At the other man’s curt nod, Palpatine sighed, handed his binoculars to the young staff officer behind him, and then moved back toward his command quarters. All three men followed closely behind. Inside the durasteel-reinforced and heavily shielded compound, he made his way to the dimensional terrain map and paced around and through the elevation patterns. The others sensed his mood and said nothing. 

Finally, he shoved back the dark hood from his head and jabbed one slender finger along the western line. “This is exactly what our intelligence foretold, Wilhuff, and it is not riddled with informants like the General’s. The mines are experimental from Black Sun, and therefore not yet in our military databanks. May I ask why General Panaka has defied my orders and decided to advance?” His tone bit at the air, and the shortest man in the back shivered. 

Wilhuff Tarkin straightened and tucked his hands behind his back. His thin face betrayed none of his thoughts. “He may have mentioned something about the glory of Naboo, sir.” 

Palpatine’s lips twisted with faint disdain. “Of course,” he muttered and dropped his hand to his side. “He bears a closer watching than even I suspected, if he survives this. There is no room in my army for sentimental idiocy.” 

Sate Pestage laughed and earned himself a glare from Tarkin. “This is no laughing matter, General Pestage,” the native Eriaduan growled. “Panaka has endangered the entire left front with his ambition. He seeks to undermine the glory that rightfully belongs to the Consul.” 

Palpatine peered up at the map. “It is of little matter, ultimately. Let Panaka drive his troops into the trap and certain death. However, withdraw the 5th and 18th Cohorts and realign them along the east lines at the 23rd parallel. Their commanders are still loyal and intelligent officers.” 

The last man to speak, the short one, opened his mouth as though to protest, but snapped it shut again when Palpatine glanced in his direction. “You wish to add something, Captain Melchon?” 

“No-no, my Consul,” Melchon stammered. “But that is a goodly number of our soldiers, most of whom are completely loyal to you.” 

Palpatine moved closer and smiled. “It is, and only the necessary number shall be sacrificed to our general’s costly ambition. The battle is meaningless, Captain, and far shorter than you or General Panaka will be expecting.” 

Melchon’s face registered blank confusion, and Sate Pestage leaned in. “The Consul plays a thousand battles within one field, Captain. Remember that, and you will do well in the Third Army.” 

Without another word, Palpatine walked away from the three men, and this time, they did not follow but remained at a respectful distance. Sate was correct; even now, his true battle was unfolding in the black heart of King Ebareebaveebeedee’s second in command, a Squib with ambition that far overshadowed his intelligence. How easy it had been to convince the blue-furred, meter-tall mammal that if he assassinated the King, the power would fall to him. Treason was a delicacy appreciated by only the most discerning palates.

Palpatine wandered outside of the compound, felt his Consular guard dropping in around him, their royal blue robes fluttering in Skor II’s stiff breeze. Tarkin would handle the incoming reports from his other generals. Skor II’s capital city was his goal, and it would be given to him from within. The dark power that coiled in his chest told him this with crystal clarity. His subordinates often wondered at how calm he would remain in the heat of battle, as though he knew the outcome already…

He laughed and turned it into a cough. He did. His premonitions nearly always came true. The foresight had developed very early in his life, initially wracking him with seizures whenever the future gripped him. As he grew older and corralled the dark shadows in his mind, the incidents grew less common. He was forty-six years old now, and it still happened from time to time, but thankfully never in public, and never before his enemies. He knew what his own soldiers thought: he had the Fainting, the blessed higher state of Being granted by the gods of Naboo. 

He knew more. In his dealings with the Galactic Alliance, he had come to discover the existence of a group known as the Jedi Order, whose entire religion revolved around the use of something they called the Force. Foolishly, these Jedi claimed to use the Force only for meditation and goodwill, and they shunned the idea of power and military might. They might be a feared organization indeed if they didn’t shy away from their own strength, he thought with a faint smile, and they don’t have the excuse I do. 

Being infamia or exile at best and execution at worst. The Naboo state religion held no love for the Force and other cultic groups. The patrician class feared what they could not control. Practicing another religion was tantamount to high treason and punishable by a variety of painful procedures. And so he continued to hide his unique talents, though it was difficult at times. The current Queen made it worse through her fascination for him, though he did not know why. Did she somehow sense the power in him, even as he buried it deep? 

He wondered even more, because soon the city of Theed would be receiving three new ambassadors from the Galactic Alliance, three Jedi… Would they sense him? Could he perhaps remain parted from Theed until the overwhelming suspicions of the Naboo drove them away? He searched his mind for the name of the one he had spoken with by hologram transmission… Obi-Van, no, Obi-Wan Ken…Kenobi, yes, that was it. Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi. He thought of his own family’s past equestrian military service in the Naboo Royal Guard. Why did he feel as though this was a different type of knight entirely? 

“Sir! Consul!” Someone was shouting his name, and he turned to see a young member of his staff approaching up the long hill. The man bowed low when he reached his leader and pointed back at the distant city. “Ribadeeradaanhaar sends his ‘elite honor’ and begs you to understand that the King is dead. The enemy armies are routed.” 

The darkness drifted over his mind and warmed him. He raised the binoculars and peered toward the government compound in the center of the city, where a tiny white flag streamed above the Squib national banner. Well done, you backstabbing little wretch. He lowered the glasses and smiled. “His message is understood and appreciated. Command our bombardment units to stand down, and the 13th Cohort to prepare to receive the surrender.” 

As the young man spun neatly on his booted heel and relayed the orders into his com, as the heavy artillery began to fall silent and Tarkin, Pestage, and Melchon appeared at his shoulder, Palpatine turned his mind on the nearest battery in quiet contemplation. Loose ends were something no leader could afford to leave behind, and a once-traitor fast became a twice-traitor. His mind flicked out, and the battery exploded into action, a bunker-buster seeker missile sailing across the valley’s distance and vaporizing in a staggering fireball against the small government compound. “Shut it down!” screamed the local commander. “You fools, it’s over!” 

“Tell me we didn’t just fire on our new friend?” Palpatine raised one thick eyebrow as he watched the smoke cloud burn high into Skor II’s atmosphere.

Pestage was struggling to restrain a sadistic grin. “I’m afraid so, sir.”

He blinked. “Pity. He might have gone far.” 

When the smoke cleared enough for his armies to move into the city, the Squib traitor’s death was confirmed. Palpatine ordered an immediate occupation of the city’s borders and sent out an all-clear to the troops. The spoils of war were theirs now, and he could feel their gratitude as an almost tangible sensation. They loved him because he provided for them, and as long as he held the loyalty of his men, his position as Consul would never be threatened. 

But he wanted more, and purchased loyalty was not reliable. This was only one step of many dozens more before his position in the history of the Republic could be assured. “Tell the media newsmongers that I will allow them to film along the edges of the city,” he told Tarkin as they ate a light dinner that evening in his new temporary quarters in the heart of the city. “Beginning tomorrow, and no access to the government compound.” 

Tarkin nodded and chewed at the tough meat, his sharp eyes trained on the other man. “Your strategy will be lauded back in Theed. Skor II’s military forces are in complete retreat. There is no one capable of uniting them again, at least not for another generation.” His narrow face softened fractionally. “The King’s son still lives along with his mother.” 

Palpatine sighed. “Unfortunate. Have the mother killed and the son sent to Theed as a ward of one of the generals. Lago maybe, or Itoch. He may yet become useful if Skor II does not stabilize in time.”

Tarkin nodded, but his brow furrowed with thought, and he leaned in over the thin table. “Consul, what you accomplished here today could have immense implications for the future. Panaka’s death-”

Palpatine raised his hand and motioned Tarkin to a stop. He reached for his drink. He knew his former slave’s intent: Panaka’s elimination had removed the last high-ranking general who may have stood against him in the Third Army, but he brushed the thought aside. Now was not the right time for that. “The General’s death was a tragic byproduct of the war. Has his body been prepared for burial?” 

“It will be flown back to Naboo within the hour, sir,” Tarkin said. “All rites to be included. We’ve already alerted his son the Colonel in the Second Army.”

“Good. Good…” he stared into the dregs of the drink, a fine local wine, swirled the contents idly in his hand. Panaka, Magneta before that, and even Darus. Battlefield deaths were unpredictable and messy, and the mighty fell with the same glazed death stare as the weak. 

“Sir,” Tarkin began again, lower this time. “Do you realize what this will do to your reputation compared to Consul Veruna and Consul Naberrie?”

“Ruwee Naberrie was never a fighter,” Palpatine said. “Neither am I, to be honest. I find it tedious and simplistic, Wilhuff. What I want is a return to Convergence and a chance to consolidate our expansion efforts. I am tired of war, and I miss Naboo.” 

Tarkin smiled, understanding at last. The room was not secure. “Of course, Consul, I understand.” Because whatever the type of listening device that Palpatine had detected, it could not pick up the gleam of satisfaction in his leader’s eyes, which seemed to sparkle with molten gold in the dim lighting. It had to be an illusion, Tarkin reasoned, because everyone knew that Palpatine’s eyes were blue.


	5. Padme Naberrie Amidala II: Crisis of Conscience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Padme attends the gladiator games in Theed and comes to a conclusion.

Theed maintained two amphitheaters within its city limits. The larger of the two sprawled near the Palace and could hold ninety thousand spectators. Padmé felt like every single one of them bumped into her on their way in. Tenecia, just ahead, grinned when she looked back and saw her friend’s scowl. 

“Lighten up, my dear,” she drawled, pointing ahead to a small entrance on the left with Futhork numbering overhead. “We’re almost there.” 

“About time,” Padmé muttered. She dodged a large man carrying two small children and shook her head in faint disapproval. Who brought children to these events? Sometimes her own people worried her, but hundreds of years of tradition wouldn’t stop just because Padmé Amidala’s conscience was pricked. She followed Tenecia through the door and found herself staring down into the wide expanse of a sandy platform. Ringing the edges of the field was a state-of-the-art racing track. On the far left, an obstacle course took up perhaps a third of the area. 

Padmé sank into the chair next to Tenecia, who had already pulled out the flimsy-pad program and was scrolling through the content with soft exclamations of delight. “Look here,” she pointed. “Nau Raulus is going to be competing in the sniper rounds.” 

Nau Raulus, a galaxy-renowned big game hunter from Naboo, had been Tenecia’s object of affection for nearly four years now. Padme studied his shimmering face on the flimsy and wondered what she saw in him. He was handsome, yes, but his personality left much to be desired. She remembered laughing about one of his television programs with Sidious almost a year ago, and she wondered what her mentor was doing right now. He’s probably much happier than I am, she thought. 

She shrugged away the gloom and tried to focus on her friend’s excitement. “I see he’s going to be racing too, next week.” 

Tenecia beamed. “Oh yes, he’s a man of many talents. Just you watch, Amidala. He’ll be on the victor’s podium.” 

“Maybe he’ll be able to spot you from there,” Padmé teased and watched the older woman blush. If only she had someone who could make her feel that way… not since the fiasco with Rush Clovis three years ago, not since he had dashed away to the Galactic Alliance after his exposure as a Trade Federation spy. She locked the twinge of regret deep in her chest and threw away the key. Today, she was going to enjoy the athletic competitions, and Rush was not going to ruin it for her. 

The gladiator games would come last in the day’s events, so Padme sat back and enjoyed the trials for the Annual Games. Non-Naboo were allowed to participate only if they were adopted citizens of the Republic, but the vast majority of free competitors were human. A few Gran sprinkled here and there, an occasional Dug. The slaves who competed represented a much wider slice of the galaxy’s population, including Rodians, Bothans, Gothals, Duros, Twi’leks, even a Zygerrian or two. 

Sidious would have laughed at the irony of one slaver culture being enslaved by another, but Padmé felt only a sad despondency. Naboo needed to wake up, needed to realize that slavery could only hurt their chances in the larger galaxy. Eventually, Naboo would run into a planet or system that would not be conquered, and then the tables would turn. Or the Galactic Alliance would eventually unite to put a stop to it, much like they had restricted Zygerria’s power. 

The events began to roll past, wrestling and sniping and the obstacle runs, and her mind began to wander as she watched, and the minutes turned into hours. 

Forty-three years ago, long before she was born, the last of the Galactic Alliance’s ambassadors had departed Naboo, and the tentative relationship, barely forged, had been soundly broken. The blame lay squarely with the Trade Federation, who had made deals for Naboo’s plasma mining and then attempted to exploit the nobles. Already possessing isolationist tendencies, the nobility of Naboo reacted violently, expelling the Trade Federation and all foreign investors connected to the Galactic Alliance. Naboo’s military had doubled in size since then, supported by the Hutts and the Black Sun and a dozen other powerful syndicates, and the Alliance backed away rather than risk open war. 

Sidious and the records told her that his father had led the pack of angry Naboo nobles, along with Ambitio’s father and Darus. All three men were long dead now, but Naboo remained wary of outsiders. Even allies were regarded with suspicion, and Naboo made sure that it needed to rely on no one else. The slavery system, entrenched and ancient, supplied their labor, and the powerful military warned all others away. 

But Padmé knew it was a lie. No government could exist completely independent of all others. The galaxy grew smaller every day, every time Naboo conquered a new planet and drew closer to the borders of other entities. Sidious knew it too, which was why he was quietly reaching out to the Galactic Alliance once again. Padmé thought of the Jedi ambassadors who would be arriving soon. Would she be able to meet them? What did Sidious want with them?

Her mentor both conquered and cajoled. He confused her sometimes, how he could speak of slavery with such disapproval and still lead the armies that produced more victims, how he could lead the Senate with the other Consuls and not press for reform. “Politics cannot always enjoy the luxury of clean battlelines, my lady,” he told her once in a rare moment of candid opinion. “We win some, we lose some, but the ultimate goal must never be forgotten.” When she asked him what the ultimate goal was, he only smiled and said, “the betterment of Naboo, of course,” and changed the subject with his usual fluidity. 

Down below, a free Naboo won the fifty-meter dash, the last trial of the afternoon, and the crowd sent up a roar of approval that jerked Padmé from her deep ruminations. Tenecia saw her startle and laughed. “You came to see the games, my dear, but you’re still stuck in your head. Do you never relax anymore?” 

Padmé blushed. “I saw it. He did very well.” 

“He’s quite a handsome one,” Tenecia craned her neck to peer down into the arena. “Do you think he’ll be at the After-Feast?”

Tenecia was right, and Padmé forced herself to give up her darker thoughts. She leaned forward and looked closely at the man. He was tall, with bronzed skin and a brilliant white smile. He walked with the ease of a natural victor as he moved to accept the laurels from the center podium. Padmé had to admit, she wouldn’t mind meeting that one. 

In that moment, his eyes met hers across the long distance, and he tossed off a jaunty wave. Padmé sat back in her chair in astonishment. “Does he know me?” she asked.

“Being a former Queen and a current senator, I wouldn’t be surprised. You’re not anonymous, you never were,” Tenecia purred. “That’s a good thing, Amidala. You’ve got an edge on the other girls.” 

“You’re so calculating,” Padmé said, but she knew it was true. That was a large part of her problem with men; she could never determine if they were interested in her or her titles. Sometimes… sometimes she wanted to disguise herself and go walking through Theed’s streets like a common woman, just to feel normal. Her life was an opera, always had been, and she felt like a bit player in her own story. Like someone else was in charge, calling the shots, and setting her up for endless disappointments. 

The crowd roared again, and she looked up. Six humans and one Zygerrian were being herded into the center of the arena, every one of them clothed in armor and holding vibroblades of different lengths. The gladiators. Padmé began to stand up, but Tenecia seized her hand and pulled her down. 

“Tenecia, I said I wouldn’t watch the gladiator fights,” Padmé hissed, pulling futilely at her hand. 

The older woman’s face grew serious. “So you did, but you need to, Amidala. You speak of ending these fights, of stopping slavery, but you are innocent, and because of that no one listens to you. You need to see what you hate to know why you hate it.”

“Well, you love them,” Padmé snapped, irritated with her friend. “I don’t need to see something to know I dislike it.”

The older woman shrugged and let go of her hand. “Then watch and tell me why you hate them. Convince me that these are not natural parts of life, as you’ve mostly convinced me about slavery. After all, dear, these are condemned prisoners of war and slaves. They are enemies of Naboo. Why should they not die for that?” 

Sometimes Padmé woke up and remembered that she lived in a truly vicious culture. Naboo cloaked itself in the finest arts and sciences and genteel pursuits, but it thirsted for the blood of its foes with no less rancor than a wild beast. How could such a civilized people condone such bloodthirsty sport? Even sympathetic friends like Tenecia still held tightly to tradition. 

“Because repaying blood with blood will only end when no blood is left to spill,” she replied after a long pause. Beneath them, the gladiators were spreading out in a fanned circle, stalking each other through the sand, weapons buzzing. Padmé wanted to look away, but now she couldn’t. Was she truly a coward for refusing to face her fears? Was Tenecia right? 

A long, thin human, his narrow face exposed, suddenly lunged forward at the Zygerrian. The feline humanoid twisted, arching his back to evade the slice of the blade. At the same time he pivoted and brought the handle of his sword down on the human’s shoulder, sending him stumbling into the dirt. Padmé winced as the blade bit the sand only centimeters from the frightened face. The man rolled desperately away, and she could hear the high laughter of the alien. 

The other gladiators were moving now, cycling in and pairing off. She could see one human in traditional Mandalorian armor facing off against a hulking brute in Naboo’s traditional cuirass. 

“Ooh,” Tenecia squealed, “That’s the Chosen One!” She raised both hands and waved wildly. 

“The Chosen One?” Padmé squinted. 

“Anakin Skywalker, he’s one of the most famous gladiators this year,” Tenecia gushed. “He’s got a perfect record so far.” 

Padmé gasped and turned green when, without warning, the long human turned from the Zygerrian and stabbed his blade deep into the back of a third gladiator. The crowd hissed and booed as the corpse collapsed with a strangled sigh, and then screamed madly when the feline swept the turncoat’s legs from under him and drove his blade through his face, the vibrations of the steel creating a spray of dark blood. 

“No,” Padmé groaned, tears forming at the corners of her eyes, but she couldn’t look away anymore. 

Tenecia cheered with the rest of them, forgetting her companion and catching up the cry. “Look out! Look out!” 

The Chosen One dropped to a roll and avoided a swing that would have taken his head and helmet clean off. He grabbed a handful of sand and flung it into the larger man’s face. As the other human staggered back, he leapt to his feet and drove his sword up between the cracks of the breastplate, sliding it straight into the heart and dropping the man like a stone. 

The four remaining gladiators circled around warily, weapons raised. Padmé could hear the distant taunts, amplified by the theater’s sound system. 

“Come on, humans,” the Zygerrian snarled. “You think yourselves a match for me?”

“Don’t get cocky,” Anakin Skywalker’s voice sounded strange and muffled by his helmet, but he sounded young to her. Much too young to be fighting for his life at the amusement of others. Padmé gritted her teeth. 

“I’ve killed seventy-three of your kind,” the Zygerrian grinned, showing off pointed canines. “Maybe I’ll bite your throat out and make you number Seventy-Four.” 

A stocky human, garbed in Malastarian armor, screamed and launched forward low and fast. Not fast enough, because the Zygerrian’s catlike reflexes saved him in a tight spin. The human gurgled his pain and clutched at the steel now buried in his throat, sinking to the blooded sand. The Zygerrian ripped his weapon free with a satisfied roar, and the crowd roared with him. 

“How can they do this?” Padmé whispered, but Tenecia did not hear her, in thrall to the pulse-pounding action unfolding below. 

The third remaining gladiator backed away, clearly unwilling to engage either the Zygerrian or the Chosen One. The crowd growled its disapproval, and one of the guards leaned in with a prod and shocked him forward. “Please…” Padmé heard him whimper. 

“Someone needs to stop this,” she choked out and stood from her chair. “Stop!” But her voice was drowned by thousands of others calling for his blood. “Please stop!” 

The Chosen One paused, his helmet tilting up toward her, and she froze. Had he heard her? He straightened, clearly searching the crowd, but his distraction cost him. The Zygerrian moved in quickly, slashing up and catching the chin of his helmet, tearing it from his head and carving a deep bloody line into his left cheek. The Chosen One flung himself back and kicked out, sweeping the Zygerrian’s legs out from under him. The feline hissed and leapt forward, straight into the blade that Skywalker jerked up at the last minute. 

The lips writhed back from the fangs, and even as the Zygerrian was dying, he tried to tear into his opponent. The Chosen One’s face was a mask of determination and blood as he struggled to hold back the deadly teeth. The third gladiator drew closer, hoping to capitalize on the distraction, but Skywalker shoved the Zygerrian’s body into him and sent him to the sandy ground. 

With sharply honed reflexes, the young human jumped to his feet and lowered the blade to the other man’s throat. The gladiator froze, clutching his weapon, and the crowd began to rumble with the last of its bloodlust. “Kill him!” the chant rose into the air. It filled Padme’s ears and frightened her. 

“Don’t do it,” she whispered. 

The Chosen One dug the tip of his blade into the throat underneath, drawing a trickle of blood that ran into the sand beneath. “Yield!” he shouted. 

The gladiator dropped his sword in clear surrender, and Skywalker kicked it across the arena. 

“Finish him!” One Naboo in the lower level screamed, and the crowd took up the cry. Skywalker searched the arena, his eyes bright blue and piercing. Padmé leaned forward in her seat, willing him to look up. 

He did, and their eyes met with a shock of energy that left her breathless. “Please don’t,” she whispered. 

The blade wavered. He stared at her. 

The gladiator shivered and whimpered at his feet. 

The crowd threatened and screamed and adored. 

In one swift motion, he reversed his weapon and brought the hilt slamming down on the gladiator’s head, rendering him unconscious and limp. Then he strode away toward his containment field as the audience of thousands went ballistic, calling for his blood, cheering him, raging at being denied one last death. 

Padmé realized she was shaking all over as she watched him disappear into the depths of the arena. Beside her, Tenecia was practically glowing with her excitement. “He chose to let him live. Oh, that’s marvelous! That’s so dramatic, dear. Have you ever seen such a thing? I see now why he captivates the best of us. I could swoon!” 

Padmé was not listening. She stared down into her hands and reached a startling conclusion. She could no longer stand by and permit this madness. Something had to be done. And this Chosen One, this Anakin Skywalker, might be able to help her.


	6. Chapter 5: Something About Her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anakin has to endure his adoring crowds, but he meets someone who might be able to hold his attention. Hope you enjoy this chapter!

The After-Feast usually cheered him up. Not today. Today, Anakin’s mind buzzed with the fight and the woman who called to him in the stands.

The one whose gentle eyes burned into him with her disapproval and sadness. 

The one he didn’t need to care about, but did.

The food that passed his lips went barely noticed, even though it was some of the finest Naboo had to offer. After cleaning up from the fight, he had been changed into a gladiator’s training outfit at Watto’s orders, the clothing designed to flaunt his impressive physique and draw in any potential financial backers at the party. Behind and to both sides of him, Nuvok and a human guard stood, their quiet presence a tangible reminder that Anakin still answered to someone else. 

All around him, free Naboo wandered and mingled with the athletes and the other members of the gladiatorial troop. Even Watto was here, flapping from guest to guest and collecting bets from multiple stony-faced competitors. His raucous laughter wafted over the tops of the conversations in the room. 

Anakin stayed in his half-reclined position on the long divan and shoved another swamp shrimp into his mouth. A giggle sounded in his left ear, and he turned sharply to find a beautiful Naboo woman perched by his shoulder. Bright green eyes, long dark hair piled high on her head, body shaped like the Naboo moon goddess, she was breathtaking. He couldn’t stop the easy smile that jerked his lips upward, for a moment forgetting his troubled thoughts. 

“Hello there.” 

Perfectly straight white teeth flashed. “I never imagined that I would get to meet the Chosen One.” 

“And I never imagined I would get to meet Shiraya, at least not until I was dead,” Anakin grinned. “Maybe I lost that fight after all…” 

“Oh, you’re very much alive,” she licked her lips and moved a little further onto the couch, pressing her curves against him boldly. “How fortunate for me.” 

In a way, Anakin was grateful. She was quickly taking his mind away from the woman in the stands and the pit in his stomach. He shifted on the divan to make more room for her. Every amphitheater had its regular customers, the hopeless gamblers and the desperate followers, mostly women but men as well. The men had to be more careful, more circumspect; Naboo’s culture frowned on any hints of effeminacy in its males. “Do you go to the games often? I’ve not seen you around the After-Feasts before.”

She accepted the shellfish morsel he extended. “I’m visiting Theed with a friend, but I go to all the games in my hometown, and I’ve followed your career for years, Anakin. Can I call you that? Anakin? I feel like I almost know you.”

“Of course you can,” Anakin watched her bite seductively into the treat. In a weird way, this was his revenge, the best he could take under the circumstances. He couldn’t destroy the monsters who ran Naboo and its slave system, but he could take their women and turn them into helpless idiots. He craned his neck to see a free Naboo several couches away, eyes alight with obvious jealousy at the way the young woman draped herself across the gladiator. Anakin grinned at him and pulled her closer. He saw Nuvok roll his eyes; the Yinchorri understood perfectly well what was going on. 

She touched his shoulder. “What does this mean?” 

Anakin glanced down where the woman’s hand traced along his bicep. “It’s the twin suns of my planet, Tatooine,” he said. Superimposed over the circular tattoo was another one, the Futhork symbol for a slave. The anger surged deep under the surface, and he turned up his smile. “It’s quite beautiful out there, you know. Just too much sand for my tastes.” 

She giggled and fanned her manicured hand against her mouth. “I’ve always wanted to visit a wild planet. ‘Uncivilized,’ mmm, it has such a deliciously dangerous ring to it.” 

Shmi Skywalker swam into his vision, her warm brown eyes shining down on him, her hands twisting the intricate beadwork of yet another basket. Her art filled the modest room. He saw the elder of their village, giving his own cloak to the homeless refugee who came to warn their village. He saw the round-topped homes encased in flames from the deadly weapons of the Naboo soldiers. He saw the capable hands of his family and friends trapped in the cold stun cuffs that proclaimed them nothing more than slaves. The price of treason, of rising against tyranny. 

Suddenly, Anakin couldn’t play the game a minute longer. He looked away from her and muttered, “Uncivilized, yeah.” But it wasn’t his people who qualified. It was hers. 

She hesitated, confused by his abrupt coldness. She tried again, a false levity lifting her bell-like laugh. “But you, you’ve been tamed, they say…”

He let a small spark of his anger burn her curious gaze. “I wouldn’t count on it, m’lady.” He kept his voice just polite enough to keep Nuvok or the other guard from interfering. 

She pulled away from him with a soft sound of distress. “Oh, I… I thought… I think I should go.” 

He watched her gather her robes, embarrassed and uncertain, and disappear into the pressing crowds. Anakin sighed. Perhaps she hadn’t deserved that, but he was in no mood to forgive these people. He had killed for them again today and earned their respect, but they would never have his. He thought of the moment he walked away from the frightened gladiator and smiled. The crowd had been denied the last death. A small victory, but he would take it. 

“Excuse me, sir.” 

The small voice on his left startled him, and Anakin froze when his eyes landed on the speaker. 

Her. 

The woman from the amphitheater, whose tiny voice had cried for mercy when thousands more hissed for blood. She was delicate-boned and pale of skin. Dark hair coiffed perfectly on her head, dressed in a flowing green velvet robe with the hood fallen around her shoulders. Her large brown eyes stared down at him with the patience of a woman twice her age. Anakin guessed her to be in her twenties, maybe not much older than him. 

And there was something about her, something unseen, just beneath the calm and straight-faced surface… he felt it in the place that he shared with no one else, in the currents that whispered of the future to him. 

He pulled his guard up warily and tried for a joke. “Are you an angel?” 

“I’m sorry?” Her thin eyebrows rose in confusion. “An angel?”

“They’re supposed to be from the moons of some planet or somewhere…” He watched her face and saw nothing of the empty-headed adulation that most women wore in his presence. “…it works on most girls,” he finished lamely. 

“Oh,” she pulled her head higher, a tinge of red crossing her pale cheeks. “I’m not here about that. I wanted to speak with you.” 

This was new. He stood up and brushed at his clothing, tugged to straighten the sleeveless tunic. Anakin realized that he towered over her, but she showed no fear. “Why would you want to speak to me? If you want me to advertise for a product, you’ll have to talk to Watto. I’m a gladiator.” 

“You are a slave.” 

His heart hardened. “I’m a person, and my name is Anakin Skywalker.” 

“I meant no offense,” she said, eyes widening. “No one should have to go through what you are experiencing. I want to help you.” 

“Help me?” Anakin couldn’t keep the low scoff from his tone. “M’lady, I’ve been fighting and killing since I was thirteen. I’ve been a slave for longer than that. You think you can help someone like me?”

“I would like to try…” 

“Why?” he demanded, knowing the sharp anger in his voice was inappropriate to level at his superiors. Nuvok shifted uncomfortably behind him. “You’re a Naboo. You like enslaving innocent people.” 

“I hate it.” 

He froze at the soft hiss, staring down into brown eyes that swam with fiery indignation. He swallowed roughly. “Why should I believe you?” 

“You have no reason to, but I’ve dedicated myself to ending this abhorrent system,” she raised her chin. “And I think you can help me.” 

“What? You want me for publicity?” Anakin chuckled. “’Free the slaves, or he’ll chop you up?’ Lady, I’m not the clean poster boy image that you want. I kill people for a living.” 

“But you don’t like it, and you don’t have a choice.” She met his eyes boldly. “You may kill, but you are no killer, Anakin Skywalker. I knew it the minute you walked away from the man in the arena.” 

He wanted to curse. Her insight worried him; if she saw it, who else did? Or was she simply able to see so far into him when no one else could? What did that say about her? About him? Anakin took a deep breath, startled by the shakiness. He could feel only calm determination from her. She was telling the truth as far as she understood it. 

Who are you? He wanted to ask, but the words stuck in his throat. 

“Ah ah ah,” Watto’s gravelly voice rang out from a few feet away. The Toydarian slaver drifted into sight, his trunk quivering with distrust. “Lady Amidala, I think you should steer clear of this one. He’s no fit company for you.” 

Amidala? Anakin straightened further. The last queen of Naboo? He peered at her; she looked so different when the white and red makeup was missing. She looked…real. 

Amidala glanced at Watto with open distaste. “He’s just like you and me.” 

Watto’s nose twitched. “He’s a slave, m’lady, and I’ll be thanking you to remember that. Your campaigns in the Senate haven’t succeeded yet, I’ma thinking.”

“They will,” Amidala said quietly, and the strength in her voice caught Anakin and held him in place, as though his honed muscles simply didn’t work anymore. “Naboo will soon realize the folly of the slavery system, and people like Anakin Skywalker will walk free. I promise you that.” 

Watto scowled. “Well, in the meantime, keepa your distance, Senator. This boy has bigger things to worry about, yah?” 

Anakin flinched. Being called a boy by his master didn’t usually bother him, but here in front of Amidala, it stung deep. It robbed him of the illusion of equality, that he was a man just like she was a woman. 

Amidala glanced at him, her eyes soft. She seemed to weigh a decision in her mind, before turning on the slaver. “How much would you want for him?”

Anakin stared. She wanted to buy him? 

Watto snorted. “More than yer Senate salary can get ya.” 

“How much?” she demanded.

“Nothing less than fifteen million credits, Senator.” Watto’s wings were buzzing with irritation now. “That’s not a sum youra likely to produce anytime soon, eh?”

Anakin watched her face fall, her eyes closing with defeat and a small sigh. “It appears I have no choice in the matter.” 

Watto grinned. “Then you’ll pardon us. Anakin and I have a lot to talk about.” He threw a spindly arm around Anakin’s shoulder and drew him closer, pulling him toward the left exit in the large room. Anakin looked back, and before Nuvok blocked his vision, he could see her standing in the same place, watching him. Her sorrow burned across the distance between them. 

His master tugged on his ear. “Ani, my boy, you’ll be better off putting that one out of your mind. She’s-a nothing but trouble for us.” 

“Was she really a queen of Naboo, Watto?” 

“She was,” he laughed. “And now she’s a senator among dozens more. She’s a fringe politician, Ani, full of crazy ideas, yah? You should focus on your victories. That was the third match. One more and you can join the race heats next week.” 

Anakin took a slow deep breath and willed the image of the Senator from his mind. “Yes, master.” He had to stay focused, to stay in the game. Amidala was just a fluke in the system, a broken part of Naboo’s madness. She wouldn’t be able to help him. He needed to win the Games and earn enough credits to free himself and his mother and all the others.

He kept telling himself that all the way back to his confinement. 

He couldn’t quite make himself believe it.


	7. Chapter 6: Mutual Acquaintances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obi-Wan arrives on Naboo and discovers that things are not quite what he was expecting. Yet, he’s not really surprised. Leave your thoughts behind, I love hearing them! :)

“R-4, could you bring us in a little rougher? I haven’t lost my lunch yet,” Obi-Wan called to the small astromech droid in the back of his Jedi Starfighter. His sarcasm flew unnoticed over the tin head, and the ship continued to shake and rattle in the re-entry grip of Naboo’s unstable atmosphere. “R-4, can you please – ”

His pleas were abruptly interrupted by a cold voice issuing over his com. “Jedi Starfighter, this is Naboo Command Center 13, can you read us?” 

“Perfectly,” Obi-Wan said, checking the readouts over his head. R-4 was steadily bringing them in closer over the Theed Spaceport on the city’s southern cliffs, and now that re-entry was done, the ride had smoothed out into an almost pleasant sailing, but his stomach was still turning over. He could see the communications tower off to the left and tossed them a wave just in case they had him on observation. “Am I cleared to land?” 

The com crackled with the tower’s silence, until finally, “You are cleared, Jedi Ambassador Kenobi. Welcome to the Republic of Naboo.” 

Welcome to a Republic… a republic of warmongers and slaveholders, Obi-Wan thought with mild frustration even as R-4 aligned his fighter with the flight deck below. To his eyes, raised on the tender pap of the Galactic Alliance in the hallowed and stately halls of the Jedi Temple, Naboo was a wild frontier of deadly snares and backwards customs. Its people were the most arrogant and self-obsessed conquerors in the galaxy, and no one dared to tell them that due to their infamous fighting prestige. The legions and cohorts of Naboo boasted the latest battle tech and droid intelligence, and planets like Tatooine, Eriadu, and even Malastare with its extensive fuel resources had become vassal planets to the Republic. 

Rumor had it that Naboo had once been a peaceful planet, interested only in art and philosophy. He chuckled darkly. Perhaps hundreds of years ago. They still feigned such genteel habits, but the truth was much blacker. Back in the Alliance, the peace-loving senators wrung their hands and tentacles and did nothing to stop Naboo’s slow but steady expansion into the Outer Rim. Nothing, that is, except sending Obi-Wan and two of his companions on a fact-seeking mission into the heart of Naboo’s government. He had known it would be dangerous; Naboo’s hostility toward Force-users or any other quasi-religious movement was well known. But he would enjoy the immunity of ambassadorship. 

He hoped. 

As the ship settled onto its three slender prongs and R-4 warbled through a set of indignant screeches and beeps, Obi-Wan thought of his quarry, the man he had been sent to analyze and dissect as a potential ally for the perusal of the Jedi Council. Sheev Palpatine Sidious, Consul of the Western Third and daring military strategist, currently on Skor II subjugating the Squib inhabitants. Or perhaps he was back on Naboo; the man was notoriously difficult to pin down. 

Obi-Wan just hoped he would show up on the day the Jedi would be introduced to the Senate. All ambassadors were introduced by the Consuls. To do otherwise would be a breach of protocol and a foreboding way to restart negotiations. But Palpatine had been part of the group willing to allow the Jedi to come to Naboo; surely he would not turn on them so soon. 

The Jedi knight sighed and pushed open the canopy of his Starfighter, sliding out to the reflective metal deck below and blinking into a bright and warm sky. Naboo’s weather dazzled him, a perfect blend of humidity and warmth, calling to his space-worn bones to rest here a while and forget his cares. Such a peaceful place, and such an unpleasant culture. Now now, he chided himself, keep an open mind until you meet one of them. He shook off the lethargy and moved down the dock toward the other two Starfighters, now expelling their contents in turn. 

Knights Aayla Secura and Luminara Unduli both offered faint bows with his arrival, and he bowed back in typical Jedi courtesy. “I hope your landings were smoother than mine, my friends,” he said. 

Aayla grinned and shook her head, her lekku swinging gently behind her. “Naboo’s turbulence is well known among space pilots, Obi-Wan. You need to get out more.”

“You know I hate flying,” he said as they turned and walked toward the customs gateway. 

“Jedi aren’t supposed to hate, Master Obi-Wan,” Aayla teased, stopping and widening her eyes to a comical degree and placing her hands on her smooth blue hips just above her wide belt. Luminara rolled her own eyes and ignored the two of them, continuing her stately stride toward the far end of the tarmac. 

“Hate or love, am I right?” Obi-Wan tossed confidently back, and he watched the purple flush sail high into her cheeks. He knew of her borderline inappropriate affection for the slightly older Kit Fisto, and she knew it too. Obi-Wan teased her with the same enjoyment as a sibling might, but he knew when to stop, and so he continued after Luminara without another word. 

The three Jedi ambled down the long walk between the landing pads. Obi-Wan took in the gleaming silver and gold trim on a long row of N-1 Starfighters. Naboo’s engineers had outdone themselves in creating an artistic level of near perfect destruction. Environmentally friendly, too. He snorted. Aayla glanced at him. 

“Are you all right?”

“Just wondering what we’re hoping to accomplish here,” Obi-Wan said. “I see things like this, and I’m reminded what we’re up against. Aggression. Fear. Suspicion.” 

“They just need to be shown the error of their ways.” Aayla nodded once. “Naboo hasn’t accepted ambassadors from the Galactic Alliance on their homeworld in forty-three years, Obi-Wan. This is the chance of a lifetime.” 

Luminara glanced over her shoulder. “So don’t blow it with your furtive whispering and open staring. We are in a different culture now.” She pointed up, and Obi-Wan followed her signal. Above them, further up the cliffs, sprawled the elegant Royal Palace with its marble columns and dozens of domed roofs at varying heights. Waterfalls cascaded over multiple rocky outcroppings and plunged to the plains far below. Even at this distance, the roar of the water could be heard. “Isn’t that breathtaking?”

Obi-Wan studied the sunlit stone in silence, but his mind whirred with thought. How could a civilization appear so civilized, and yet take such pleasure from war and domination? War was abhorred in the Galactic Alliance and glorified here. At least the Yinchorri were honest about their brutality. The Naboo simply gloved their weapons in shimmersilk and smiled as they drove them home. 

“Here they come,” Aayla announced, and Obi-Wan looked to the end of the walkway, where half a dozen figures approached. “They’re not all Naboo.”

He agreed with the surprise in her voice. Two of the humanoids were Muuns, the infamous interplanetary bankers who funded everything from coups on backwater planets to loans for the Galactic Alliance itself. The Naboo delegates dressed in elaborate costumes of their own, the cloth showy and ostentatious, and Obi-Wan wondered just how much was a pointed message to the new ambassadors. 

No familiarity here. He studied the faces of the three males and did not recognize Consul Palpatine among them. One he did recognize, General Sate Pestage from the earlier communication proceedings. Pestage’s narrow face showed no sign that he remembered Obi-Wan as he stopped and offered a shallow bow. The Jedi ambassadors returned the gesture in unison. 

“We welcome you to Naboo, honored Jedi,” Pestage said. “The Consul begs your indulgence, having only recently returned from his victory on Skor II.” 

Obi-Wan stopped the scowl of disapproval before it surfaced. “Of course we understand, General Pestage. Will we be meeting with him today?” 

Pestage nodded. “Yes, he is completing some business with Her Majesty in the Palace. Do you have luggage or supplies?” At the Jedi knights’ slight nods toward their fighters, he turned partly to the side. “I’ll have the servants collect them for you. May I introduce my companions? This is Sim Aloo, Kinman Doriana, Janus Greejatus of Chommell Minor, and Lars Hill and Hego Damask of the IBC and Damask Holdings, respectively.” 

Obi-Wan inclined his head to each in turn, then indicated himself. “I am Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi, and this is Knight Aayla Secura and Master Luminara Unduli.” The party showed polite interest, but Obi-Wan could sense a cool disdain in the aura of the older Muun and a bored lethargy in Greejatus. The one called Hego Damask studied him with beady eyes and an enigmatic half-smile. 

Luminara watched the Muuns with calculated surprise, and she startled both Obi-Wan and Aayla with her bold opening. “You are far from the comforts of Muunilinst. I confess I did not expect Naboo to be hosting members of the Banking Clan.”

The one called Lars Hill inclined his long head to peer down at her. “The Intergalactic Banking Clan is not unknown to the Republic of Naboo, Master Jedi.” The gentle sarcasm placed on her title did not miss its mark. Luminara’s eyes narrowed. 

Damask looked to the older Muun with an expression of gentle rebuke, then fixed his gaze on Obi-Wan. “We also have only just arrived to meet with Consul Palpatine. Perhaps soon we shall have a mutual acquaintance.” 

“The Force begets strange partnerships sometimes,” Obi-Wan replied, and watched the Naboo carefully. All three recoiled at the mention of the Force, though they recovered quickly, faces smoothing into blank indifference. Damask appeared amused, the corners of his thin gash of a mouth turning up. 

“So it would seem, Master Kenobi.” 

Sate Pestage beckoned them forward, and the party began moving toward the lifts that would take them up the cliffs to the street level of Theed and the Royal Palace. As they walked, the Naboo general twisted his hands together until he finally paused to turn to the three Jedi. “I must warn you, my friends, that on Naboo little benevolence is felt for the philosophy of the Force.” 

“We do not intend to press our beliefs on the people of Naboo,” Luminara said. “We are here as ambassadors of the Galactic Alliance.”

Pestage smiled tightly. “And we welcome you gladly, but I would recommend a less blatant display of your views and powers, at least until the people of Naboo have learned to accept you.” 

Luminara studied him in silence for a long moment. Finally, she nodded. “We understand.” Obi-Wan and Aayla offered their own nods of consent to Pestage’s obvious relief. And the censorship begins, Obi-Wan mused. He wondered how the Consul felt about all this.


End file.
